Going For A Run

Without all dream I am common. Without dream the desert dies.
Patience doesn’t like running. Running doesn’t like patience,
either. But I am running towards patience so I hope they need me. I
hope something needs me. I want a course in collision. I want to
live despite dying—I am not defeat. I will never conceal stars.
They have too much to burn.     The flow of
mountains keeps me up at night. The flow of mountains tells me my
time is almost up. This is not what I need to hear—still—I bury
melancholy as far as the word “damned” allows me. It has always
been the tallest statue in my collection of dispositions. I do not
know what my countenance screams, no one has ever told me the
answer to many of my questions. I dream in words, not photographs.
I like to abscond from my own subterranean tricks and vicious
vexes. I love to live despite my dying and glean from courses in
collision. I love to find things in the imaginary. Pulling rivers
and stre